Room to Fall

And if the devil were to see you, he would kiss your eyes and repent. 

—Farouq Gouida

•

NEW YORK

At all times, the Metropolitan masqueraded as a hideout for those who counted themselves among the crème de la crème of New York society, with its elegantly appointed dining area and discreetly uniformed attendants who, it was said, appeared just as the thought of calling on them crossed your mind—which was a fact.

With dignified Louis XV bergère chairs, the barrel-vaulted ceiling painted over with uncannily recreated scenes from popular renaissance period art, and a chef rumored to have worked in the employ of a now deposed military dictator, it would be remiss to say that one did not feel its appeal as soon as they walked through its revolving doors.

However, décor and customer service hardly counted for its reputation as one of the city’s most popular hangouts, which was why only a select few knew of a velvet panel which looked to be a part of the wall in one of its winding hallways.

When pushed, it revealed a lushly-carpeted stairway that led down to a private room that had been a stuff of legends among many a gentleman-only club for as long as memory served: a part-lounge, part-casino inspired after what must have been a Moroccan fantasy, with every surface of the exclusive subterranean playground a bordello red, from floor to ceiling, that opened late into the night and ran well into the next day, so that it’d become quite normal for residents living in that zip code to spot an occasional bleary-eyed business man who’d had a wild night out and was now too hung-over to recall that something like an Uber even existed.

The mirrors interspersed all over the space seemed put there to call attention to this kingdom of scarlet, though it took a while to notice even this beyond the curtains hung about, rustling red silk, and a haze of sweet smoke that hung over the atmosphere; folk sprawled on damask settees, men half-asleep and the woman half-dressed pressed up against them, gazes flat beneath expertly applied eye shadow.

Here fortunes had been made and destroyed all in the span of a single game. It was the real reason behind the Metropolitan’s notoriety, and not in fact their admittedly impressive hors d’oeuvre menu.

Five players sat gathered round a hardwood mahogany table, and the pot was 352,000 dollars. Three hands in and Camille Delacourt kept it safe: winning nothing, losing nothing.

She was the only woman at the table, and her appearance had only served as a distraction when they first began playing, attracting a handful of spectators who quickly dispersed when they realized her presence brought nothing new except a few catcalls.

In her peripheral vision she saw the scrawny man seated in the seat opposite from hers leer, but kept her gaze firmly rooted on her cards, or on the space right above his head, because he was of no importance, and besides, she wasn’t here for him.

The man in the seat beside his however, was a different story. Andrej Jovanovich.

On the surface he was a skinny man with a limp mop of brown hair that happened to work as the manager of some Slavic shipping company, but anyone with their hands in more than one pot had heard the rumors—that it was a front the Serbian loan sharks he happened to be a part of put up to keep appearances.

With his sharp beady eyes and conventionally handsome features, even without Michael Brahms warning she would’ve known she couldn’t trust him as soon as she could throw him.

“Is everything alright, baby doll?” the man opposite her asked, and all four men on the table looked in her direction—Michael’s as skeptical as the rest of them.

When his wife Charlotte had first sought her out, she’d expected that it was a typical case of a woman scorned with too little sense to hire a Private Investigator and find out all the dirty secrets she needed—but as soon as the highflying socialite told her everything after a sworn oath of secrecy, she’d once again remembered that appearances were usually the most unwise things to go off on.

After all, who would’ve predicted that a multimillionaire who owned one of America’s most popular fast-food chains, with his slicked back salt pepper hair and kind gray eyes would be stupid enough to put up a quarter of his equity shares to Brahms Foods Holdings in a stupid bet, and then go on to lose it?

“Of course, I feel like we only just started.”

This was a lie. She may have joined this latest round, but over the past few hours she’d flittered through the room, keeping an eye out for all the regulars, taking mental notes of their strategy and how best to counter them, because a good poker player so she eked out her edges to find her opponent’s weaknesses, played with her brain running at full speed as she worked simultaneously to ensure that each hand was mathematically correct even as she remained on the lookout, aiming, and then firing.

Some people had a natural flair for the game, but Camille had been drilled in strategy since she hit eleven and that, along with a brain well-suited to anticipating and working out every possible outcome of a decision meant that she was ruthless. Not that any of them knew, at least not yet.

Still, Camille’s hands cramped from how long she’d had them curled around cards and sweat gathered on the base of her neck, starting just below where her smart bob fell before rolling down the back of her navy midi Antonio Berardi dress. Her feet pinched in the pair of 600 dollar Sergio Rossi’s she had on, and she longed to have a bubble bath, reading Emily Bronte as she sipped on a glass of vintage Dom Perignon. Following this mental image all traces of fatigue vanished and she straightened, taking in the other players through rejuvenated eyes.

With her latest cards she had a solid chance at the current pot, which was easily over two hundred thousand dollars. She bet twenty thousand, and with a pre discussed signal from her—a slight shoulder roll—Michael, along with the fifth player folded, leaving her, Andrej, and the pervert who’d turned his gaze to her cleavage now that a timeout had been called. The older sent a furtive glance her way, but she refused to meet his eyes and kept her mind on the task she had in front of her.

Then all of a sudden Andrej had his eyes on Camille too, and as if noticing her for the first time his handsome face broke into a genial smile that sent a chill through her, but she returned the gesture.

It was show time.

“Before we begin can I make a suggestion?” she asked, leaning forward imperceptibly, and as soon as she did she saw the third player perk up at her words and only years of drilling kept the expression of disdain from her expression.

Luckily, it was Andrej who spoke first. Turning the other man down would’ve cast a suspicious light over her motive, and at this stage in her plan, with things going virtually unhitched—even the smallest misstep could be catastrophic. Camille stood on a tightrope.

“You would like to make a suggestion?” the blond man asked, his speech pattern pure American frat boy charm.

At her nod he gave a dismissive flick of his wrist to signal that she should continue. She beat out the spark of irritation that flared at this motion and cleared her throat; after all, her ego was a small price to pay if it meant she got what she wanted at the end of the day.

“I’ve noticed that you’re very lucky,” she said, batting an eyelash and then mentally scolding herself for being a bit on the nose, but Andrej didn’t seem to notice this as he leaned forward, stapling his fingers and bring them to rest under his chin.

He was no fool; she’d give him that at least.

“If you win you get to keep all the winnings to yourself and a little extra.”

“A little extra?” the third player squeaked, Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulped, but Camille kept her gaze fastened on Andrej’s.

“And what’s the catch?”

“Michael’s equity shares of course,” she said, taking a calculated risk and showing her hand. “The ones you won last week.”

One of the players let out an inaudible gasp as her words registered, and after a short time Andrej burst into a fit of laughter so intense he hit at the table violently until it subsided, and didn’t even deign to acknowledge Michael as he spoke.

“All that money for pussy when I can get that anywhere, who do you think you are, the Queen of fucking England?”

Camille said nothing, breaking eye contact to rummage through her Birkin. She noticed some men stiffen, hands drifting over to where they’d probably kept their concealed firearms, but they relaxed as soon as she pulled out a slip of paper and pushed it to the middle of the table.

It was a check. A check signed and left blank, so that whoever received it got to fill in as many figures as they wanted to, unhindered.

“No,” she answered, meeting his eyes with a look that let you know she moved through the world as if it belonged to her, “a Delacourt.”

A few tense moments passed as the weight of her landed, and without hesitation Andrej bet another fifty thousand. Michael’s shares were a good investment, definitely, but the years at court trying to claim them would be messy for everyone involved and Andrej did not like messy.

Here was an opportunity to make some insane cash and fuck an old money heiress while he was at it.

Camille called, meeting his bet of fifty thousand, and immediately the third player whose name was David folded with his arms raised in mock surrender, sensing for the first time that the gorgeous woman he’d spent the last hour ogling, with her average poker skills, had been a lioness masquerading as sheep and was only now setting aside the disguise.

It intimidated David, scared him more than a little bit if he was being honest, and he felt himself harden in his pants. Women who appeared untouchable and out of his league had always turned him on, and he wondered if she’d agree to pee on him if, by some insane strike of luck, he got her to leave with him to his apartment.

“I’m guessing that is a yes then?” Camille asked, the hairs on her skin standing as she felt the third players gaze darken with lust and held back a sudden urge to shiver in disgust.

“Oh, baby girl, I’m about to show you how real men play poker.”

From the back of her mind dziadzia’s (pronounced jah-jah, which meant grandfather in Polish) voice whispered a platitude that sent a shard of pain through her as she’d heard it so clearly it felt like he was by her side.

It was an oft quoted line from Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, one of the earliest books on strategy he’d had her learn when he first started tutoring her. One of the only books whose words she knew could quote line for line if she had to, the product of hours’ worth of labor.

Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him.

Camille let slip her first real smile of the evening.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: hello! if you want to support this book then rate it and don't forget to drop a comment. also consider following me on social media (fb + insta: mathieuforest).

now sit back and enjoy the ride x.

– mathieu